


When Lucifer Fell

by annaswintour



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Backstory, Mirandy is open for interpretation in this, Oklahoma, The Sixties
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 04:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18984961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annaswintour/pseuds/annaswintour
Summary: The workings of two stories in one: Miranda confiding in Andy about living in New York before Runway, and the tale of Miranda's younger self as she navigates who she wants to be





	1. Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head

**Author's Note:**

> I own NOTHING. (Although I wish I did, if ya know what I mean)
> 
> Yes, I am aware that Miranda has a background stated in the book. But I like the movie way more where we know nothing about her past and I wanted to recreate her story from nothing as I was inspired by a short story I read recently. I warned you, so don't come attacking me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just changed the setting of the story, please let me know if you find any inconsistencies

2006  
New York City

It always came on like this. The ache would start around five thirty in the afternoon, a small pulse in the back of her neck, then slowly spreading through the rest of her head until it pounded so loud she could barely read the words in front of her.

"More coffee," Miranda hissed through her office door, and from her peripheral vision, she watched as Emily-or was it Andrea-scramble away from the phones and sprint down the hallway.

She took off her reading glasses and began gently massaging her temples. Too many details to attend to, events scrambling about in her head; tomorrow brunch with a photography director for a behind the scenes shoot, which was never going to happen. Miranda wouldn't let it. Then the push to bring back dogs for the next cover, the sweep of spring clothes rotating through The Closet, a huge Calvin Klein order being late, a model getting pregnant, and who could forget the rumors going around that Cate Blanchett was to be approved to model a new Dior dress.

Miranda was sure there was about a million other things she still had to deal with, but she couldn't find the energy to remember them all. Frankly, she wished she could wipe out all of her current staff and replace them with capable robots that didn't suggest things and voice their disgust about their boss. They all gossiped, it was no secret. She could only imagine what they say about her behind locked dressing room doors. She-Devil back at it again for the fourth time this morning. Who will bite the proverbial bullet from Miranda's loaded gun? They all were whispering through the walls of changing rooms. Miranda didn't care what they said about her. She couldn't care, not if she was to keep her sanity.

Andrea scurried into Miranda's office at that particular moment and set down a much needed scorching hot Starbucks order on her desk.

The assistant herself was hoping, praying silently, that somehow, for some reason, the editor would want Emily to bring the book to the townhouse tonight. However, she knew it wasn't the case.

Miranda barely acknowledged the coffee and with a small wave of her hand dismissed Andrea with an empty that's all.

She returned to her desk and checked the time, thinking it was close to 5:30. She squinted at her desktop clock. Yep, right on time.

"I'm going down to grab the mail," Andrea said to Emily, who rolled her eyes at the mere fact that Andrea felt the need to announce when she left to get the mail every single day.

She coolly strolled down a floor below where mail for the entire building was delivered. Shelves lined the walls and Andrea found her way to a bin that was labeled inner-company mail, which was mail delivered within Elias-Clarke itself. Then next to it, a bin labeled USPS, which was mail coming and going from anywhere.

Andrea picked up the stack of arriving mail from the USPS bin and carried it back to the elevators. She took this time always to peek at the envelopes. Many were letters from fashion enthusiasts and Runway fans. There were so many of these that Andrea had learned to separate them from important mail and toss them before Miranda even laid eyes on the letters. The rest of the mail consisted of receipts from certain purchases, and sometimes checks or photo proofs that Miranda no doubt had wanted a week prior. Andrea usually sorted the mail herself and delivered what needed to go where within each department. It was an easy task really now that she had gotten used to it, and she could get it done within fifteen minutes.

Although, today, something strange within the large stack of mail caught her eye. A manila envelope stood out among the other, normal envelopes, and Andrea had never seen it before. She pulled it out as the elevator doors opened, but paused in confusion.

The envelope had the correct address indeed, and even said 'Runway Offices' across the front. There was a security seal, and an old address scratched out on the front, somewhere in Oklahoma. What Andrea found the strangest of all though was the person it was addressed to. She didn't know of anybody in Runway by the name of Marianne Price.

After delivering the other mail, she walked back to her desk with the manila envelope, deciding to ask Emily about it after she got off the phone.

Miranda called for her just as she walked in, and Andrea had to let out a stressful sigh before entering the editor's office. She turned the large envelope over in her hands, hoping it would go unnoticed.

"I need you to get Gina from legal on the line," Miranda ordered, not even looking up.

"I take it the plans for the Niagara Falls shoot aren't going too well," Andrea stated, her eyes going wide when she realized she had spoken out of turn. Miranda, however, seemed too immersed in her own stress to care that the assistant had spoken freely.

"It would be going far better if the legal department would do their jobs," the editor mumbled and looked up. She frowned at Andrea's hands before looking down again. "What's that?"

Andrea glanced down at the envelope in her hands. "It's uh-it's-um, just something I believe was delivered to the wrong office, I'm going to take care of it now."

"Well who is it addressed to?"

"Someone named Marianne Price."

Miranda's head snapped up so fast she could've given herself whiplash. Andrea had never seen the editor move so fast, and never seen such a reaction. An alarming energy seemed to radiate out of her eyes and she reached across the desk in less than a second to grab the envelope from Andrea.

"Give me that!" she huffed as the envelope was snatched.

"Okay--"

"That's all!" Miranda interrupted and Andrea was left to return to her desk, a little concerned, and curious as to what it was about the envelope that seemed to have spooked the mighty dragon.

...

"Do you think it's a possibility that Miranda lives a double life?" Andrea asked Doug later that evening, catching a late night 99 cent pizza after she dumped The Book at the editor's townhouse.

Doug had asked to meet her, for he just got out of a Broadway show and was quite hungry. He had been the only one out of Andrea's former friend circle that had remained in touch and hadn't shunned her for such dedication to her job.

"I mean, I think it's rather unlikely, but you can never assume," he said and chomped down on a slice of pepperoni. He chewed for a moment and then spoke again.

"What makes you ask such a question?"

Andrea pondered for a moment whether she should entertain the idea of her callous boss having secrets, then decided it wasn't really hurting anyone to be a little curious.

"I brought in an envelope today addressed to someone at Runway I had never heard of before. I was going to send it back with a note and just take care of it, Miranda would prefer that. But, she took it away from me, and with such force. Then when I went back to my desk I watched her stuff it under a huge pile of Calvin Klein catalogs like she was afraid of the thing. I don't know, the whole thing was just weird."

Doug raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly. "Maybe you should do some poking around."

"Are you insane? That's my one ticket to getting fired."

"Is it so much to just ask her? Maybe it's worth getting fired, it could be good for you," he teased.

"Yes, it is that much to ask her! And how could you say that?" Andy sighed.

"Sorry, I know it hits a nerve. But you told me yourself, after Paris things got better. Do some inquiring. I mean, you go to her townhouse every night, she obviously has taken a liking to you. What could go wrong?"

Literally everything, Andrea thought.

"Miranda is very private, I know nothing about her personal life other than what is splashed across page six."

Doug looked at her with a surprised expression etched on his face.

"So do you even know anything about her past?"

"I didn't think she had one. I assumed she was born editor-in-chief with Prada heels in one hand and a silver spoon in the other," Andrea laughed.

"I mean, essentially she was."

Andrea stopped shoving pizza down her throat for a moment. She then realized she was being gross, practically inhaling the greasy slice of cheese and bread in front of her. It had been weeks since she had anything like pizza.

She squinted at Doug. There was no way he knew more about Miranda than she did.

"What do you mean?" she asked him.

"Well," he began. "Not much is known about Miranda Priestly before she worked for Runway, and The Dragon Lady has never ever opened up to the media or really anyone about her background."

"So what is known about her, other than she's the most influential person in fashion? Since, even before I got this job, you clearly seem to know so much more than me." Andrea took a sip of her water glass as he went on.

"Beating out Anna Wintour who took over Vogue at thirty four, Miranda Priestly became the youngest editor-in-chief ever, taking over Runway at the age of twenty six within her first five years of employment there. Little did Rene Mirabella know that when she hired the young beautician she'd be gunning for her job within a few precious seasons. When Miranda Priestly became Creative Director for Runway she transformed the magazine behind Mirabella's back, increasing sales by 79.2 percent, surpassing Vogue. Then when she became editor-in-chief, she grew the magazine's circulation to 1.2 million, making Runway one of the most widely read magazines in the entire world. She is a living legend, and that's all anyone knows about her."

"Really, that's it? There's no way, people she grew up with have to know her. Doesn't she have parents? Or siblings? She came from somewhere," Andrea shook her head in disbelief.

"There are speculations of course," Doug stated. "Some people think she was born to one of the finest families in East London. Others say she's third cousin to Queen Elizabeth and second cousin to The Devil. But who knows really?"

Andrea was silent for a few seconds, and she went to respond, but like some ungodly clockwork, her cell phone rang. Frowning, she pulled it out, curious, and a little annoyed at whoever would call her at eleven at night. Her mouth tightened and stomach began to churn at the name. Doug watched as she answered the phone.

"Miranda, hi."

"I need you to book two seats for Houston Hobby as soon as possible," the editor purred into the phone.

"Okay, Mi--"

"That's all."

She hung up.

Andrea frowned again at her food. Houston Hobby? What was that? A restaurant? A show of some sort? Her immediate thought was something along East Houston Street in downtown Manhattan. Doug laughed as she whispered and typed at her phone.

"Was that her?"

"Yep."

"She ordering you around at this hour?"

"Yep."

"And you're going to do exactly what she asks for right now?"

"Yep. I have to go book something. Thanks for dinner, Doug, I'll see you later." She hugged her friend quickly and awkwardly before hurrying out of the pizza parlor to go figure out what the heck it was that Miranda wanted.

...

That night, or rather that morning, as Andrea got home around midnight, she did some researching only to figure out that Houston Hobby was an airport, only the main one in Houston, Texas. God Andrea felt like an idiot for not immediately knowing. Of course, she had never been to Texas though. Why Miranda needed to go there, Andrea had no idea. Maybe to inspect a photo shoot location or something, who knew. But she was surprised. Texas of all places? Andrea had spent little time in the Bible Belt of the country, but she hadn't liked that experience as it was. Everyone drank too much and judged each other too much. She really had grown used to the tolerance of the North. No one cared what you thought or how you looked here.

Andrea did as she was told, and booked two first class tickets to Houston Hobby airport for ten o'clock that morning, knowing that Miranda no doubt wanted the first flight out there since she called so urgently. 

At least she'd be free in the office for a little bit, but with Nigel going with Miranda she assumed, it'd be a little overbearing just trying to talk to Emily, who was still incredibly mad about Paris.

She crawled between the cool sheets of her lonely bed. The other side had been empty long since Nate had gone, but Andrea was too involved with work these days to notice. She would get home late every night after seeing Miranda, only to wait and greet the editor again the next morning. Lately, nothing seemed to matter except that damn magazine. Andrea closed her eyes again, ready to repeat the cycle.

...

At eight o'clock Tuesday morning, Andrea casually strolled into Elias-Clarke, looking forward to the easy day without Miranda. Maybe she could catch up on her sleep now that she didn't have to wait for The Book.

As she began logging into her computer, her phone made the god awful shrill that signified a phone call was coming through. Andrea groaned at the caller ID.

"Miranda, hi," she answered as cheerfully as she could.

"Where are you?" the editor hissed through the phone. Andrea's face grew very hot very quick.

"At the office," Andrea answered her nervously.

"What on earth are you doing there? Do you have amnesia or something? Be here in fifteen minutes," the editor ordered and hung up before Andrea could respond.

Be here, be where? Andrea clenched her fists and pushed the shut down button on her computer angrily. Miranda had to be at the townhouse still, Andrea guessed, for the flight wasn't until eleven. Maybe she wanted Andrea to buy some things for her trip, but she would have received a list.

She clacked her way all the way to the elevators and all the way across the marble floor, passing an irritated Emily on the way who barked the question of where she was going. Andrea ignored her and sped out of the revolving doors.

Picking up Miranda's Starbucks order on the way, she booked it to the townhouse, barely making it as her phone began ringing again.

As soon as Miranda saw the assistant the call ended and she yanked the coffee out of her hand.

"Took you long enough. Did you go to Rwanda for the beans or something?"

"No, Miranda."

"Alright," the editor sighed. "Let's go.

...

The car ride was silent, and Andrea had come to the ultimate conclusion that she was the one going with Miranda to Houston, not Nigel, and she was as confused as ever. She was overwhelmed with the dreadful feeling of just up and leaving without knowing what was going on. And even worse than that, she hadn't packed a single thing.

When they arrived at JFK and Andrea began unloading Miranda's luggage, the editor had questioned where her things were.

"I didn't know I was coming on this trip. I thought it was Nigel."

Miranda only rolled her eyes and stalked off towards security, leaving Andrea to check in the bags and navigate her way through the airport.

On the plane, Andrea felt awkward being alone with the editor. Not that anything was weird, because it wasn't really. But she had never spent time alone with Miranda, and sitting on the plane now, she observed the woman next to her. She almost seemed, as Andrea could only describe it, nervous. She kept popping her fingers and flexing her hand while glaring out the window to the sky beyond. Andrea didn't know if she should be concerned; for she had never seen Miranda like this before.

They had a quite short layover in North Carolina, and Andrea took the time to find a week's worth of semi suitable clothes for the trip. Not her usual collection of thigh high boots and dresses, and Miranda had certainly pursed her lips at what she saw, but they would do for now until she was able to figure out an alternative.

When they sat on the final plane to Houston, Miranda's hands started up again, and Andrea watched as she nervously cracked them and bent them over and over again. Fifteen minutes into the flight, the editor's head snapped around to face the assistant and Andrea turned away instinctively.

"Andrea, your eyes are burning holes into my hands, just ask the question!" Miranda commanded.

Was this a trick? She remembered rule number one that Emily had told her on her first day; never ask Miranda anything. She hesitated, but gave in.

"What is this trip for and why am I the only one coming with you?" Andrea blurted, quite fast she hoped the editor didn't understand her.

Miranda didn't falter.

"This is a personal trip and I am bringing you because one I'm still working, and two, I trust you."

The words crashed over Andrea like a tidal wave and she was hit with a ton of emotions all at once. 

Trust? She trusted her? And she had actually said it! Even if it had been true before, Miranda would never actually speak it out loud. Must be some hell of a personal trip then. Or maybe Miranda was going delusional. 

Andrea couldn't figure it out.

"I'm not crazy. I do have a life outside of Runway," the editor spoke again, as if reading her assistant's mind.

Feeling somewhat bold, Andrea said, "I just always thought you'd been editor-in-chief of Runway since the beginning of time."

Miranda turned away from the window again and looked at Andrea with wide eyed interest, before rolling her eyes and glancing back at the window. She spoke again.

"Contrary to popular opinion, I didn't work for Runway right when I came to New York. I spent two years hopping around salons and boutiques before Elias-Clarke took an interest in some advertisements I had wrote and called me, asking me to be some junior writer for a magazine called The Fencepost. It was a ridiculous job, I hated it. So when I discovered Runway, a small fashion magazine nestled along the other terrible magazines, I transferred there as a hair stylist. And I was good, very good. I thought I'd spend a year at that tiny magazine, then try and move to Vogue. God I wanted to work for Vogue so badly. But then, I didn't. I'm glad I stayed. Because I did this. I built this." Miranda smoothed her hands over The Book as she spoke those last words. 

Andrea shivered. What was wrong with her boss?

"Why are you telling me?"

Miranda went back to flexing her hands and popping her perfectly manicured fingers as she stared out that window.

"Because I know you won't make a fool out of me."

And she was right. No matter how weird she was acting, or how uncharacteristic her response was, Andrea would keep her mouth shut and follow Miranda to the edge of the earth and beyond if needed, and never speak once of anything the editor may accidentally admit in a sudden flash of vulnerability.


	2. Remember The Time

1966

Angleton, Texas

"More coffee!" called a high pitched voice from the end of the narrow hallway. "Marianne!"

There was a crinkle of a candy wrapper long consumed, and the thump of flat shoes as the seventeen year old bounded across the hallway.

"How many times do I have to scream your name?" scolded Therese, the second oldest of four siblings from the Price family. Jody falling in first, Therese, then Marianne, and lastly, the youngest and only boy, Drew.

"Mother went to go pick some up from the store this morning," Marianne told her when she entered the kitchen.

"Then where is it?"

"Probably behind the milk," she walked to the cabinet, consisting of a variety of teas and hot chocolate mixes. She reached in and felt around until her fingers brushed across a familiar can. She then went on to pull it out and place it promptly on the table in front of her older sister.

"Behind the milk," her sister muttered, and grabbed the can with annoyance.

Marianne, however, retreated back into her room, this time closing the door behind her in hopes to not be disturbed. Although, her auto-mechanic of a father would come home from work soon, and her mother had yet to finish at her grandmothers. Both would arrive and expect household and farmyard chores to be completed.

Marianne reached for a raggedy pair of overalls she stole from her sister's fiance, slipped them on along with her outside shoes, and glided out the backdoor of the house.

Her chores were fairly simple, and equally shared with the two siblings that still lived with her of course. Jody of course, found her way out last year and moved in with her fiance one acre over.

Marianne often found herself carrying the load of not only her duties, but Therese's and Drew's as well. Therese was too busy worshiping trends and flattening her blonde wavy hair under the iron. Drew claimed he was too involved in work, but she doubted that, and assumed he went to "work" in the city with this buddies at the grocery store, making gelatin and adding special ingredients to consume later. He'd come home high as a kite and claim he was too tired for chores or dinner, but Marianne had caught him multiple times inhaling large amounts of food at midnight. She never knew what it was going to be either. One night it was ten raw eggs and straight cocoa powder. Another night she found him, cigarette in one hand and frozen bacon in another. He ate the entire package right out of the freezer. After the first time she caught him, she had long since learned to ignore it.

Marianne never minded doing her siblings work for them. It gave her a sense of responsibility, and she liked that. Work was fulfilling for her. Even doing something as simple as filing paperwork for the librarian at school brought her solace. But doing stuff like that was mindless, boring, and Marianne wanted a real job, something to challenge her.

There was always the option of getting involved in more school activities, or enrolling in harder classes like honors chemistry or college calculus. Neither appealed to Marianne. She did okay in school, really, it's not like she was a bad student. It was just so easy for her. So easy in fact that she was able to do several other things in her free time and still get homework done. Her parents didn't know, and Marianne was sure her teachers didn't enjoy it. She didn't think they liked any student who wasn't struggling.

To her surprise, Jody was in the pasture when Marianne arrived to do chores.

"Being a housewife boring you?" she asked her sister.

"Quite. But I'm glad I get to call the shots in my own life for once without mom or dad hovering over me all the time. But I think I need to get a job."

Marianne paused as she was halfway into chucking a bail of hay into a trough.

"Why's that?" she continued and then squatted down to cut more twine on the hay grass.

"Well, half of Marc's income is still going to you all even though we've moved out, and-oh-well-oh, we want a baby."

Marianne chose not to react. Of course, it wasn't a surprise, Jody had always dreamed of a big family ever since she was a little girl, with the perfect marriage and more kids than she had siblings. The entire prospect of having something like that disgusted Marianne on some level, but she supposed she was the odd one in the family, for Therese also shared the same ideas.

Still, a baby. Marianne could barely imagine her sister, nearly married at nineteen, and pregnant.

"I'm sure you'll figure it out," was all she managed to say before grabbing a cloth sack and ducking into the chicken coop to retrieve some eggs.

...

Marianne was not fond of the furniture in the house, particularly the living room. Along the wall sat a prickly green couch. It was old and tearing along the armrests. The cushions were sunken in from years of sitting, and coffee stains littered the fabric. The only word Marianne could come up with to describe it was plain and simple. Ugly.

Her family was poor, it was plain as that. They couldn't afford new furniture. As soon as Jody and Therese had gotten jobs, all income went straight to the household.

Marianne refused. She wanted the money to herself, to pay for school in the city. Her mother and father would have laughed.

Jody didn't go to college, for their parents said it was only for the rich people. Therese was sort of in college but not really. She wanted to be an elementary school teacher, and was giving piano lessons to a professors daughter in the city in exchange for a couple classes and lectures. Drew was getting ready to enlist in the military to help with the conflict overseas in Vietnam. He was just waiting until he turned seventeen, still two years away.

None of this was good enough for Marianne.

She sat in her room now, spewing out articles for the school paper a million words a minute.

From 1960 to 1966 alone, the Angleton population has grown by 8.9%. At this time, the population of the school district No. 11 has increased 1,325 persons or 14.7%. Granted, families...

She stopped writing and reached forward to place her pen next to a sheet that said 'editorial opinions'. This wasn't enough still.

...

"This isn't good enough," Marianne threw her half written article for the week on the desk of the journalist teacher of Angleton High.

He raised his eyebrows and put on his reading glasses before taking the papers in his hands.

"What do you mean not good enough? Your articles have been more than fine, Marianne. People read your stuff, they enjoy it, your work appeals to both teacher and student," he said confused.

"Not the articles, those are fine," Marianne answered. "I mean the paper. I want more."

"There isn't any more I can give you."

"Make me an editor."

Her teacher sighed deeply.

"Marianne, we don't need any more editors. And didn't you say you didn't want to get more involved? You told me that you were content with just writing. You're a fantastic writer, your work isn't touched by any of the others."

"I know. But it isn't fulfilling anymore, and I want the other articles to be just as good. I want everyone to read the school paper. So make me an editor."

"I'll think about it."

"That's acceptable. For now."

...

It was late afternoon when Marianne left the school. She walked fast, eager to get home before any of the others did. It was only a Thursday, and nothing stopped the biting wind as it blew across the green plains.

On the way, she checked the time. She had a couple hours of free time before the whip was cracked down upon her. She made a pit stop by the Liquor Man's house. A local older gentlemen, if he could be called that, but a friend to the teenagers. Nobody knew his real name, but he'd sell you alcohol for any occasion whether you wanted to throw a party or replace a wine bottle in your aunt's cabinet. He'd been arrested several times for the activity, but he always got around it some way or another.

"You want the usual?" he asked Marianne when she approached the door. She didn't even have to ring for him.

"Yeah," she answered and handed him a four dollar bill. You had to pay him extra for his so called troubles. Marianne didn't think it was that much of a pain to get the alcohol, but the Liquor Man claimed that cops liked to do random inspections all the time, and he had to be cautious.

He disappeared from the door and came back momentarily with a cheap bottle of whiskey, his head sweeping both directions before he handed it to her.

"You take care now, Miss Price," he smiled and Marianne accepted the bottle before tucking it in her jean jacket and heading off.


	3. Sweet Caroline

It was half past six when Marianne made it down the familiar road towards home. Before she could get to her own house though, she hitched a ride and took a detour about a half hour drive down south near the coast until she ended up on the muddy driveway of a pale orange bay house.

She pulled up the garage door manually and let herself in. 

"Caro!" she shouted from the bottom of the house while she climbed the stairs to enter. There was a loud thump from above and a voice that shrieked, "I'm coming for christsake!"

A few minutes after that, a couple heavy footsteps sounded near the stairway entrance.

An old lady popped up, opening the door to the house, slightly hunched over and a well wrinkled face. She had white hair that was perfectly styled over her light, weathered skin, and her nails were still perfectly manicured as if they could have belonged to one of the local high school girls. The youth of her nail art contrasted with her clothes, as they were baggy and sagged like the woman did. She glared at Marianne and looked her up and down before holding one hand out.

"Got something for me?" the old woman nagged.

Marianne nodded and pulled out the whiskey from her jeans.

The old woman grinned and screwed the cap off before taking a quick swig.

"That's my girl," she nodded and beckoned for Marianne to follow her into the house.

As they passed through the kitchen and dining room, Caroline called over her shoulder.

"Tell me how old man Tony Willow is doing. Still kissing the toes of that secretary?"

Marianne shook her head. 

"That secretary got married ya know," she said. "she's Mrs. Young now, and she no longer works for the school."

"Gave her the shit, did ya?" Caroline was amused.

They reached the living room and Marianne took the time to perch herself on a worn leather couch along the back wall of the room, facing Caroline who resumed some needlework on an undergarment in a squeaky rocking chair much too big for her. Oh, Caroline loved to gossip, and had no problem telling Marianne to collect dirt on everyone. 

"Did she marry the cook from Jerry's?" she asked.

Marianne nodded.

"She was a little slut wasn't she?"

Marianne's face reddened at the word. People around here threw the term around loosely whenever they felt like it. Sometimes all you had to do was look at a boy. Still, she didn't have to like hearing it.

Caroline stopped her needlework when she noticed the younger girl hadn't attempted any verbal response and she now had her gaze fixed hard on her knees. She knew she didn't like the word, for it somehow degraded ones self, and even though Caroline could be talking about someone a million miles away, it tore at Marianne's ambition and knocked her self confidence down as if she was being personally attacked by the word. She started up on a new subject.

"Are you going to talk about being an editor for the school paper this week?" she asked. Marianne, glad to be on a different topic, perked up.

"Oh, yes. In fact, I already went in and asked for it."

"Asked?"

"Yes."

"Don't ask, Mary. Go get," Caroline spoke slowly, as if Marianne couldn't comprehend the words coming out of her mouth.

"I will go get. I demanded to be an editor," Marianne explained, not in a particular mood to debate with the old woman today.

"You didn't demand," Caroline started. "You nagged."

"I don't follow."

"Don't act stupid, it doesn't suit you," Caroline hissed. "You're a nagger and you know it. You don't get things by screaming at people. You get things by knowing what you want and not accepting anything else."

"I won't accept anything else."

"If that was the case you'd already be running the paper," the old woman scoffed, and Marianne's jaw dropped, partly in disbelief in Caroline's lack of faith in her abilities, and partly because she was beyond annoyed and couldn't come up with anything to say.

"Then tell me how to fix it," she asked, begging for the wisdom locked up behind Caroline's wrinkly skin.

"Don't speak so loudly for one. No one likes a screamer," she answered, smiling to herself as she worked that needle in and out of the yarn.

Annoyed at Caroline's harassing, Marianne stood up from the couch and began strolling through the house nonchalantly. She liked the house. It was larger than the other bayhouses lining oyster creek. Much larger actually, and something she could imagine herself living in some day. Not here however. She wished to live anywhere but where she was. Somewhere east she thought; like Florida.

She entered the den, which was connected to the living room on the south end of the house, and the largest room of all. It consisted of three desks aligning one wall, a couple lamps here and there, two couches, a table along the length of the couch behind it. And shelves along the opposite wall, holding a wide collection of films from the early 40s and several vinyls. Caroline had always prided herself on the collection and spent many hours drinking her whiskey and telling Marianne about them.

She turned and passed one of the couches, through another which led to the office. It was smaller, and an L shaped desk occupied one half of the room. On the desk were tons of bills Caroline refused to sort and notes tapes to them so she didn't forget. Marianne had offered once to organize everything for her, but stubborn Caroline refused and told her if she ever laid a finger on the envelopes across her desk she'd never be allowed back into the house again. Marianne stuck to reading the magazine subscriptions also piled on the desks. Many of these copies were of the fashion magazine Seventeen. Caroline always let her take as many as she wanted, and Marianne would read them cover to cover, absorbing every published word across the pages.

Leaving the office, she went through another connected door, this one leading to Caroline's bedroom. 

Marianne didn't linger there, she never liked to. It felt like she was going to far and invading the old woman's privacy, though she never seemed to care. She bolted out of the bedroom and straight across the living room to the hallway across. Passing a window to the den on the way through, Marianne wiped her finger along the sill. Dusty. She'd have to come by tomorrow or the day after to clean.

In the hallway, a bedroom and a bathroom sat on the right side, another bedroom further up and to the left that connected to the den, and a bedroom at the very end of the hallway that connected to the laundry room. 

Marianne liked how everything in the house was connected. She could walk circles around the rooms for hours and never get tired. Being in the house, walking the rooms was somewhat therapeutic and brought her solace, especially when she was in stress. It saved her the trouble of having to pace back and forth in her own small room in her house that she shared with Therese. This was a place of escape, an easy get away, just a five minute walk from her own residence. And Caroline never cared. Though she wouldn't admit it, she enjoyed the young girl's company. 

Marianne returned to the living room shortly after her self guided tour of the house. Caroline was still deeply immersed in her needlework, and Marianne watched for awhile, interested in the shakiness of the woman's hands as she stuck one end through a loop and so on, repeated the motion. It was mesmerizing really, but she got bored quickly.

"I'm going to get the editor job, I guarantee it," Marianne stated out loud, sure that Caroline would have something snarky to say and tell her all the reasons she didn't deserve it. And she would probably be right. Marianne didn't deserve it.

The old woman however, just grunted and didn't even look up from her needles.

"If you say so," she mumbled absent mindedly. Marianne was annoyed at this.

"Well," she said and stood up. "I guess I'll be going. You better make that whiskey bottle last until Monday, I'm not getting another one until then. I'm short on money."

Caroline didn't say anything, further pissing Marianne off, but she decided it wasn't worth getting excited for. The old woman was like this a lot, it was nothing new, and she shouldn't expect to be coddled for feeding the woman's slight alcohol addiction. 

"I know you'll get that editor role," Caroline spouted rather impertinently. 

Marianne paused before she left for the backdoor. She stayed and listened, not saying anything back, but waiting for more. What Caroline finally said wasn't what Marianne had hoped for, but she couldn't expect anything flattering, it just wasn't her way.

"Just stop nagging."


	4. It’s A Long Way Back

The car ride was less than unpleasant after they got out of the airport.

Miranda was driving, and Andrea sat uncomfortably in the passenger seat, watching everything out the window fly by until they were out of the city.

They had been on the road for about thirty minutes now, the bustle of cars driving on the highway lessening as they headed further south.

There was no chatter about in the car between the two women. Not casual anyway, and Andrea preferred that. Instead it was Miranda having Andrea call everyone back at Runway and try to direct them to what needed to be done or approved. Whatever Miranda needed to relay back to the magazine, Andrea was her messenger.

"No, no. Jocelyn, the cover shoot got moved to next Wednesday--no--I don't know if she will be back--" Andrea huffed into the phone.

"Tell Jocelyn she better have that skirt for the lineup tomorrow! Put it on Mrs. de la Renta's flight tonight," Miranda interjected.

"Yes--Jocelyn, put the skirt on Mrs. de la Renta's flight. Nigel is expecting it down there--no I have no idea. Okay, thanks, bye." She hung up the phone and leaned her head against the shoulder of the seat.

Miranda was not happy.

None of the phone calls made within the past half hour had gone well, and it was frustrating both the editor and her assistant. Worse than that, Miranda had already gotten in a bad mood before they had left the rental car place.

"No, I don't want that. I want an SUV," Miranda stared down the man behind the counter, taking off her Prada sunglasses to look directly at him. He flinched, but wouldn't back down.

"I can get you one by tomorrow if you'd like to wait. We have some touch up details to do. I won't even charge you extra for the larger vehicle, it would be no problem," he said. Miranda would not have it.

As they argued, Andrea shrunk back behind the older woman, a little embarrassed, but she wasn't going to say anything. They were in a different city, a new land. People didn't know who Miranda was here. In the end though, she ultimately won and she was handed keys to a black Range Rover.

She stormed out of that tiny place with Andrea right on her tail, who turned over her shoulder to mouth 'sorry' at the poor man behind the counter who was left utterly terrified and speechless.

Since that little fiasco, Andrea was afraid for anyone at the end of Miranda's wrath, including everyone she had to call back at Elias-Clarke.

"Is there anyone else you need me to call?" Andrea asked, praying that the answer was no. Thankfully, it was.

"No, that's all."

The silence in the car resumed, and Andrea closed her eyes. The entire day had exhausted her and now it was seven o'clock in the evening and she was not only tired, but starving as well. The only food she had consumed was pretzels on the plane and a nasty cup of coffee that made her insides churn. However, she was not about to vocalize that she desperately, desperately needed something in her stomach. Then, unpredictable Miranda Priestly turned to her assistant and asked "Are you hungry?"

"Yes," Andrea answered her flatly, thankful to whatever god was out there listening to her pleas.

The car pulled over in the next town to a small Greek restaurant called Atitamos. It was mostly empty when they sat inside, the exception being an old man reading a newspaper and a youngish couple whispering to each other and scarfing down what looked like tomato pasta.

A hostess approached them shortly after they walked in and seated them towards the back, two tables away from the old man. Andrea noticed her boss sat down awkwardly at the table, and Andrea was about to offer to sit at a different table, but Miranda frowned at her and in her deep husky voice, said "Sit, Andrea."

She didn't object and did as she was told, taking her place at the opposite side of the table, facing the editor. They were brought menus, and within less than a minute, drinks and food were ordered. Andrea ordering shrimp pasta and Miranda getting Moussaka and a baklava, wanting her dish extra hot.

The food came out, and Andrea watched the editor as she devoured her meal. A new expression came across her face, one that Andy had never seen before, as she had spent the better part of the past year observing every twitch, every crease, and every gleam in the woman's eye in order to just figure out what she was thinking or wanted. This was new though, and Andrea marked it down as enjoyment, blissful.

"I didn't know you liked Greek food so much. Would you like me to start bringing you some for lunch?" Andrea asked. The editor shook her head.

"I only indulge sometimes, though I love it. Greece is one of my favorite places," she kept eating, and Andrea couldn't believe she was so relaxed. Maybe whatever this personal trip was for was a good thing. At least she was in a better mood now than she was at the rental car place.

"My favorite musical takes place in Greece. Mamma Mia," Andrea knew she shouldn't have said it, and she knew she definitely should have stopped talking after the first two words left her mouth, but the casual setting had millions of words bouncing off her tongue.

"Have you ever been to Kalokairi?"

"Do I look like Meryl Streep to you?" Miranda asked mockingly.

Andrea took this opportunity to shut up, and they each finished their meal in silence. God, it was just as bad as the elevator incident.

After dinner, they kept driving for about another fifteen minutes until they entered a small town lined with tiny buildings and houses, as well as several farm fields. Everything was extremely green here. Andrea had noticed that when they had been flying in. But God it was so humid.

Andrea had grown up on the outskirts of Cincinnati, also very green. But at least it was dry.

It was dark now, and feeling much better from the food, Andrea was highly aware of everything going on.

The first thing being that Miranda seemed to know exactly where she was going without direction, and Andrea still had absolutely no clue what the point of this trip was. The second thing being that tucked into Miranda's double chained Saint Laurent bag in the backseat was the manila envelope that came in the mail yesterday.

Feeling quite brave in this small town in the car alone with Miranda, Andrea dared to ask the question, "Who is Marianne Price?"

There was a number of explanations that could have been plausible, but Andrea was sure she knew the actual one.

She now expected the editor to attack her, a verbal lashing that would cause Andrea to shrink back into her seat and regret ever taking this godforsaken job nearly a year ago. No one asked Miranda anything, and Miranda never explained anything. They weren't friends. Andrea was here to work. However, the strangeness of the trip only kept growing as Miranda looked at her for a brief moment before turning back to the road and letting out a deep sigh.

"Someone that doesn't exist anymore," she admitted.

Andrea, not expecting to have gotten an answer, furrowed her eyebrows at this response and paused before looking back directly at the white haired woman.

"For you? Or in real life?" she asked her.

"Both."

...

By 7:45, Miranda had pulled the car in front of a red and white bricked building with only two cars parked out front. It was one of the nicer buildings Andrea had noticed as they drove through town, and Andrea assumed it was something official.

She followed closely behind Miranda as they entered the building, walking across a long tiled hallway where a single round desk sat, and behind it, a man perhaps around Andrea's age messing around with a Rubik's Cube.

"Excuse me, ma'am, it's after hours, City Hall is closed, the Council will be back up tomorrow," he said, taking a swooping glare at the woman before him, inducing a confused look, most likely from the fact that neither of the women before him were from around here.

"I don't think you understand," Miranda voiced. "I'm here to see Glen Brewer."

"Yeah, y'all and about a hundred other people every day. Come back tomorrow, lady."

Furious now, Miranda took one step closer to the desk.

"You call him up right now, and tell him Miranda Priestly is here to see him. And I will not accept tomorrow morning at seven, or after his lunch meeting, I'm here now. I don't care where he is, get him here," Miranda softly spoke.

That was the thing about Miranda that Andrea loved. She never raised he voice, she was quiet. Whenever she wanted something, she practically whispered it like the angrier she was the softer she spoke, and it was so incredibly terrifying, Andrea was completely fascinated.

"Fine then," the young man laughed. "But he won't come down here."

He rolled over to where the phone was and dialed a number quickly before letting it ring. The other end must have picked up quickly, for the young man began speaking.

"Yes--I know it's nearly eight--no, sir, you have someone asking for you--I know that's what I told her but she was persistent, sir--the name you ask? Miranda Priestly--oh--well yes I will, sir, right away."

He hung up the phone and turned around to face both women.

"He'll be here in twenty minutes."

...

The man Miranda had asked to see, Glen Brewer arrived in no less than twenty minutes, coming in looking tired like he had just eaten dinner and thrown on a suit without combing his hair or fixing his tie.

"Miranda Priestly, hello," he greeted and offered his hand. Miranda did not take it. He turned to Andrea.

"And are you the younger Miss Priestly?" Andrea frowned for a moment before realizing that he was assuming Andrea was her daughter. Her cheeks burned and she saw Miranda's eyebrows shoot up.

"Oh no, I'm her assistant," Andrea corrected him and he nodded his head, slightly embarrassed.

"Assistant, right," he mumbled and motioned to a hallway towards their left. "If you'll follow me please."

They passed through the hallway, quite dark since nobody else was there, and approached a singular conference room, not an office. Mr. Brewer held the door open for them and Miranda stepped through. Andrea however, stayed put outside of the door, assuming Miranda would want this to be a private meeting, and this didn't count as the "work" she had brought her assistant along for. Miranda turned back and looked at the younger woman before motioning with her head for her to follow. Surprised, Andrea quickly stumbled after her and took a seat on her right at the long table. Mr. Brewer walked around and sat on the other side, facing them.

Miranda adjusted herself in her seat and pulled out the manila envelope from her bag, placing it on the table directly in front of her. She spoke first.

"I understand that you would like to buy my house."


	5. Where The Boys Are

There were indents on the floor along the side of the hallway lockers where hundreds of kids had stood and leaned against the wall, chatting and giggling between classes and during lunch.

At this time of day, the last classes had just ended, and students shuffled out of the building quickly with the exception of those involved in sports or other activities.

Marianne had spent the past hour working in the library, for she had no seventh hour class, and she had her feet planted in one of the indents along the lockers as she waited for a friend to come get her and give her a ride.

It was annoying really, having to depend on others for car rides. Most of the other kids, the spoiled kids, as Marianne thought, had their own cars that they drove to and from school. Marianne's family had one car, a dark gray 53 Chevy, for it was all they could afford, and Marianne was barely allowed to even look at it. At least Therese got to drive it every once in awhile for a special event like prom or something. But only then, and the car had to be back by 10:00 that night. Marianne would have rather hijacked a ride with someone else.

She wished she was able to get away with it early in the mornings before school, but it was hard since all the houses were spread out and no one wanted to go out of their way to pick someone up.

Marianne, Therese, and Drew resorted to walking to school everyday, no matter the weather. They lived far enough to use the bus, but it was still another half mile in the opposite direction to get to the bus stop, and the three siblings never thought it was worth it.

Drew was a baby about the entire ordeal though, and he sure liked to complain, a trait gained from their father.

One time during early autumn it had rained. Angleton had no sidewalks, and so the dirt from the fields and yards would wash out onto the road, right where they walked every single morning on the way to school. Marianne and Therese had to carry their skirts all the way to the school to avoid dragging them along the mud, and they got their very best shoes completely filthy.

Drew had whined the entire time and even threatened to turn around and go back inside before they had even left the driveway.

Marianne had glared at him and yanked him by his earlobe practically all the way to school, reminding him that their parents would murder him if he skipped school. Still, it didn't make him complain any less.

The other's in their class, especially the well off stars of the school, knew that the Price family was poor, and often used it as a petty insult when they couldn't think of anything more degrading to say.

Marianne was similar to her older sister Jody, in which she was generally well-liked, yet didn't belong to any single friend group or clique within the school. She was on the volleyball team, and she was a decent player, but she didn't fit in with them. She didn't play any other sports, she didn't immerse herself in poetry or music either. Of course, she least of all fitted in with the yearbook club or journaling group, for they all thought she was self righteous and liked to drag her through the mud. She couldn't wait to see the look on their faces when she became an editor.

So really, despite the fact that nearly everyone in school knew who she was, and she was well connected with the most important people in her class, Marianne was indeed alone.

"You ready?" came a voice from around the corner, making Marianne jump.

"Yeah, let's go," she greeted a rather tall, rough looking boy of her own age. His name was Keith Sutherland, and they were only friends because she walked by the gas station where he worked everyday. He was nice enough, and decently good looking, though Marianne wasn't interested in him romantically. Still, he was good enough to give her rides every once in awhile.

Keith considered them friends, but that wasn't the title Marianne gave it. She preferred the term allies.

"You have practice today don't you?" he was talking about volleyball.

"Yes," Marianne answered and slid into the passenger seat of his Toyota pickup.

"Don't let Therese catch you off of campus," Keith warned. Marianne ignored him. She just needed to get from point A to point B.

"Just drive," she muttered and began rubbing her head.

Kimberly, captain of the volleyball tea was no doubt going to yell at her tomorrow. This was two weeks in a row of practice she had missed. It didn't hurt the team, Marianne played fine anyway. And she couldn't help that her sewing class fell on a Two o'clock every single day, the same time as practice.

Keith kept trying to make conversation on the way there, and Marianne was not thrilled about it.

He was quite chatty, but it seemed to run in his family, for Keith's five older brothers were exactly the same. One of those brothers, Joel, had worked at the same autoshop as Marianne's father. She recalled a time when she stopped by afterschool to visit her father and Drew, who skipped class to watch cars being fixed. Joel was there too, and he was talking up a storm to old Billy Waters about some book or another.

"Well of course it's causin' up a storm--no one ought to read about that stuff, murder and such," Joel spouted to the deaf farmer. Billy had no clue what the young man was rambling on about, but he nodded his head in agreement to make him feel better.

"I mean, it's a book. And who reads books? Women! Women can't read that stuff," Joel kept going, taking drags of his cigarette in between his phrases. Bill was going numb at this point.

Marianne stood in the corner of the small room practicing her sewing as she waited for her father and brother to go on a lunch break. She was quite intrigued by this turn of conversation, rather, Joel's monologue. The particular book they were talking about was In Cold Blood by Truman Capote, and she had read it twice since it came out earlier this year. The novel was fantastic and Marianne worshiped the writing style. It was much better than several of the stories you found in Angleton's dingy public library. There was definitely room on Marianne's book shelf for a new favorite.

Contrary to old Billy's sustaining silence, another mechanic named Frank had a strong opinion about the matter. He walked in puffing clouds of smoke with greasy hair and hands, wearing a white cotton t shirt stained a nasty black. He looked like he had just been rolling around in oil for the past half hour. Perhaps he was.

"I don't like the book either," Frank mumbled as he settled in behind the desk in the waiting room. "My wife bought it, read the whole thing in one night."

He then claimed the story put ideas in her head, for Mrs. Frank Duvell said she was scared. Scared of what, Joel had asked, now completely intrigued that his monologue had turned into actual conversation.

"Oh, she says she's scared to death of a murder right here in Angleton," Frank said.

"She sounds mighty paranoid! This is why this book is bad, too bad," Joel nodded at the mechanic and went right into the hundreds of other reasons he disliked the book.

Their fears didn't add up, Marianne had decided. She doubted there would be any murders around Angleton anytime soon, unless you counted the amount of time Joel was killing by talking about that damn book.

Still, Joel Sutherland couldn't shut up about the Clutter family and kept chatting about it even an hour after Frank and Old Billy had come and gone.

Frankly, he just wanted to hear himself talk, not caring whether or not anyone listened. After awhile, no one did.

All six Sutherland boys were exactly the same. Smart things they were, but their mouths were never closed. It was only really beneficial to Marianne when she was collecting gossip to feed Caroline.

The Sutherland's ran their mouth so much it was easy to start them on a topic and let them go off, collecting information as you went. She never felt guilty about it.

"You're kinda quiet today," Keith mumbled to her in the truck as they pulled onto the main road. Truthfully, this is how she was everyday, and yet he still made the same comment every time he gave her a ride. It was that fraction of a second where he would stop talking and then notice his company wasn't saying anything in return. Marianne wondered if he realized no one ever listened. For that, she did feel a little guilty.

"Same as always, Keith," she muttered in a tired response.

There was an awkward silence that filled up the truck for the first time in what Marianne thought was weeks. Keith almost made it a full sixty seconds before he burst the quiet bubble.

"I'll try and talk less, I'm sorry, Mary," he rambled in a pathetic apology. She smiled to herself a little. He tried, and she appreciated that. The same couldn't be said for his older brothers.

"Please don't call me Mary," Marianne told him, and Keith gave a weak smile and a hard salute in acknowledgement. It was stupid, and they both knew it. For Keith, he instantly regretted doing the action in front of the girl that was the center of his attention, and for Marianne, she tried to suppress the second hand embarrassment she suffered in the inescapable moving vehicle.

She prayed for the little truck to move along faster, for her to get to her destination quicker.

She knew and had known that Keith Sutherland was interested but the feelings just weren't reciprocated. And it didn't help that everyone was trying to push them into linen closets and hoped they'd lock themselves into a bathroom stall.

Marianne's own parents did not allow anything along the realms of dating, and they would be furious if they so much as heard speculation that Keith was interested in their youngest daughter. Even though her older sister Jody practically had her tongue shoved down her now fiance's throat since they were fourteen, it took their mom and dad a full year before they could peacefully see each other without sneaking out or ditching class to make out in the softball field.

Oh, Jody had practically been engaged to that boy since her freshman year, but Marianne fixed them a divorce within the first two years of marriage. It would be quite an exciting odyssey. This was the sixties however, wives didn't just divorce their husbands. Marianne only knew of one family like that and when it happened they were the sole topic of the town for a whole two months. Divorce didn't seem like an appealing lifestyle anyway, and Marianne prayed to God that she would never be like that. That's if she ever married. There were better things to do in her opinion rather than entertain a man. However, refusing to marry didn't sit well with Angleton's few residents, especially the elder folks.

Marianne had spoken to Caroline about this, and the old cranky woman couldn't seem to care any more about marriage than a fish could about flopping around on land.

"So what?" Caroline howled. "Marry a man, don't marry a man, do whatever the hell you want. Only those choir ladies care, and maybe God, if he exists, but what the hell do I know? And why should God care? Can't imagine he put us on this green land if our only purpose was to bind ourselves to the stupid of mankind."

That answer had gotten quite the laugh out of Marianne, and she remembered feeling wholesome that day, and completed her chores in twice the time that it normally took her. Maybe Caroline was really God. Marianne hoped so. It would give her a better reason to pray at night.

"Here we are," Keith announced as he pulled the truck up to a small beige house where Marianne's sewing class took place. She hopped out of the vehicle, grabbing her things.

"Thank's for the ride."


	6. Silent All These Years

"The house is not for sale," Miranda said bluntly at Mr. Brewer who was leaning back in his chair with his fingers laced behind his head. He looked at the editor in wonder, confused about the entire ordeal just as much as Andy.

"Then why are you here if it's so simple?" he asked casually. Miranda thought of the first excuse her brain could manage to dish out.

"Because you insufferable people clearly don't get the message and keep harassing my lawyer and me with letters and paperwork that I refuse to sign, so clearly I have to come down here myself and take care of it," she shouted in that terrifying whisper.

Contrary to the usual bunch that always shrunk down under Miranda's fierce tongue lashing, Glen Brewer didn't even blink at her insults. Andy thought perhaps it was because he didn't know who she was.

"You know what Ms. Priestly? When I hired an investigator to track down the owner of that house, I just didn't get it. I still don't get it. I just can't figure out why the editor-in-chief of a prestigious fashion magazine owns a bayhouse in Freeport," Brewer bit back.

Oh, Andy thought. So he did know who she was. Or maybe he looked her up.

"I'm quite jet lagged from my flight, and I believe my assistant and I have work to do. If you'll excuse us for the night. We'll resume our meeting tomorrow. Say nine o'clock?" Miranda spouted and stood up suddenly, causing Andy to instinctively rise with her. Brewer had hit some kind of nerve, and before he knew it he was agreeing to the meeting tomorrow morning with barely a second thought.

"I suppose so," he mumbled to the editor.

"Good. We have much to talk about."

"Is there anything else I can do for you tonight? Anything you want?" he asked her, more out of courtesy than an actual desire to help her.

The editor took a long pause before answering him.

"No," she said matter of factly. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."

...

The editor and her assistant left city hall soon after that and drove down to what Andy thought was a hotel, but wasn't quite sure. She didn't know how expensive it was, but it was a refuge in a small town. The place was hardly nice enough for Miranda's standards. At least that's what Andy thought, but both of them were staying in it all the same. When they got to the hall outside their rooms, Miranda instructed the younger woman to change, get settled, and then report to her room in a half hour to work.

Andy nodded a faint yes and slipped in.

The room itself was unimpressive, at least compared to what she was used to staying in on these so called work trips Miranda dragged her on. But she supposed this was the best you could get in tiny Angleton. This entire time Andy felt like she was trapped in some horrid eighties film. This entire town felt like it was stuck at least thirty years back, perhaps more. Everything was dusty and old, roads worn down and bumpy, lights dim, houses barely being held together, even few people around this late at night dressed like time hadn't passed. The only modernish thing around were the newer car models.

Andy did as she was told and changed out of the clothes she had been wearing all day and into something slightly more comfortable. A pair of sweats and an I love Texas t-shirt that she snagged at the airport. She'd be lucky if Miranda didn't pass out on sight.

Thirty minutes later, she found herself knocking on the editor's door, awaiting the god awful tasks that were to be thrown at her.

Miranda opened the door within a few seconds and her face tightened up at Andy's ensemble. However, she didn't make any scathing remarks as she led her assistant towards the couch and mini table in the corner of the room.

They worked silently for a good while. Andy pulling up various layouts, Miranda going over them and making notes along the margins, choosing color schemes, rearranging certain photos on the pages, Miranda surprisingly sometimes asking Andy for her input, changing up the page order, picking alternate photos for the color block shoot. The two were quite productive for at least an hour until Miranda took off her glasses and placed them on the Carolina Herrera features in front of her. She rubbed her temples stressfully and Andy felt a strike of guilt reside in her gut. This particular scene reminded her all too much of that night in Paris, once again, in Miranda's hotel room.

"Enough," the older woman sighed and waved her hands in what looked like a dismissal. Taking this as a cue to gather everything from the table and return to her room, Andy began to collect the layouts spread around, tucking them back into their respective folders. She stood up, about to walk out of the room until Miranda spoke again.

"I didn't say leave, Andrea."

Andy's face burned and she retreated back to her seat on the couch, unsure of anything at the moment. God it was just like Paris. Except instead of feeling hopeless she just felt confused. Miranda began speaking again, never looking at Andy once.

"Do you remember when I said I saw a lot of myself in you?" she asked.

Of course she would bring up Paris! It's always Paris!

"Yes," Andy told her.

"I meant it, I really did. When I was younger at least and I came to New York. It was the first time I had my feet firmly planted on the ground, and I knew who I was, or at least who I wanted to be."

Andy held her breath. Whatever drugs Miranda was on, she wanted a heavy dose of the same thing. What she said next though, nearly made Andy vomit all over Nigel's editorials.

"I would've understood if you left."

The assistant didn't know what to say to this, and Miranda knew it too. After a longer than necessary silence, Andy did find some measly, pathetic words to spew out.

"But I didn't."

Miranda turned and made eye contact, making Andy shift uncomfortably in her spot on the couch.

"When I turned eighteen, I had the same choice that you had in Paris. Although I was already well aware of who I could be if I gave in. You had me to tell you. As did I. There is a difference between you and I though. You were content with who you were before, and you still could be. For me, it was never enough."

Had the editor been drinking before this? Andy wondered. This entire ordeal was strange, and she hoped that Miranda hadn't slipped somewhere into her past, forgetting who she was with.

It didn't seem so, as the white haired woman straightened out and returned to her icy self.

"Tell the receptionist downstairs if I so much as hear a mouse through the walls while I sleep this hotel will have legal papers thrown about in their face, and when you wake up tomorrow call Ava and tell her to pick out four editorials from the color block, then call my girls and make sure Caroline finished that English project that is due, then remind them both that I will call them during lunch tomorrow, after that, contact Giselle and tell her the dress didn't get altered and we'll use the sequins instead, the dress was foul anyway and looked like it came out of a second hand vintage store. Finally, text Nigel and ask him what he plans to do with the 40's Working Women feature. If he doesn't take out the double page photo, everyone that reads the magazine will have a seizure. I'm not running a circus. Let me know what he says immediately," she concluded. Andy wasn't sure if she even took a breath. The assistant nodded, scribbling everything down as fast as possible on a nearby coffee lid, as there was nothing else to write on. She looked up to Miranda, waiting to see if there was anything else.

"That's all."

The night was concluded, and Andy retreated back into her room. Tomorrow, more interesting things should come.


	7. With A Wonder And A Wild Desire

"The position is yours," Mr. Willow told Marianne three days later. He reached up and took off his glasses, leaving an indent on the bridge of his nose where they had rested.

"But you'll have to show up to the weekly meetings, no skipping out, like you do with volleyball practice."

Marianne narrowed her eyes. Of course he would know about that. All of the staff members liked to gossip about their students, and Marianne and her awful academic success was no exception.

"Sure," Marianne muttered, and sped out of the room, not wanting to be under her teacher's judgmental gaze for any longer.

Marianne did attend these so called editor meetings that happened weekly, the first one being a near disaster when she showed up.

"What are you doing here?" Jackie, the head editor had asked when she walked in.

"Oh, haven't you heard? I have a position now," she snapped. This gathered some raised eyebrows around the room, and whispers among the six of them.

"Alright then, sit down," Jackie told her.

Marianne tentatively grabbed a nearby chair and joined their little circle of surprised faces. She knew at least two of them didn't want her there, the other four couldn't care less. In Marianne's opinion, the meeting was useless and boring, and she didn't understand why it was necessary to have one every week. They talked of all the articles, next week's main topic, all of which could be sent out in a newsletter instead of just a meeting. Marianne contributed nothing, just listened to Jackie's rambling. God she would hate to have a real life boss just like him. There was nothing to be managed, everyone knew exactly what they were doing. Why did he insist on these pointless meetings? They were just a waste of time.

Marianne wondered if she could get away with skipping the meetings and just fixing all the articles instead. They'd all complain that's what would happen, and Mr. Willow would put her out of the paper after Jackie threw a tantrum.

Whatever.

"You have anything to say?" Jackie asked her at the end of the meeting.

Sure, lots of things.

"No," Marianne told him, and the room emptied.

The day was coming to an uneventful conclusion, and bored out of her mind, Marianne decided another visit to Caroline could do some good. And maybe she could rant about the paper while she was at it.

She found the old woman in the den, rearranging her records for the millionth time, and in surprisingly a good mood.

Marianne took the liberty of plopping herself down on the couch, putting her legs up and resting her head against the arm piece.

"I don't understand what they're doing. They don't talk about how to make the paper better or better serve it's readers, they just talk about what articles were good and what to write about next week and then they get off topic too much, it's entirely a waste of time," she ranted.

Caroline blew the dust off one of her Elvis vinyls.

"Screw 'em," she huffed, and a dusty sneeze erupted from her.

"Willow said I have to go to these meetings if I want to stay on as editor."

"Then just take over the whole paper and start running the thing. I'm sure you could do a much better job than anyone else."

"I don't want that. I don't care enough about it, I just want the articles to be good. The younger writers can't write a coherent sentence to save their lives."

"Well," she said. "I won't tell you how to run your new found position."

They're time together had been short, but Marianne needed to get home, she was expecting a call.

When she arrived at the Price household, her father was already home. It surprised her, for she wasn't expecting him for another hour, and he wasn't in a good mood.

"Watch out, he's on the warpath," Therese whispered in her ear as she walked through the house towards the back door to tend to her outside chores.

She nodded her head and found her father organizing barrels of dog food in the barn.

"'Afternoon," she greeted him trying to sound casual about it. He snapped up, suddenly aware of his youngest daughter showing up.

"'Bout time, where have you been?" he asked.

"I had an afterschool meeting with the journalism group," Marianne explained.

"You didn't tell me about that."

"I'm sorry."

"Or your mother."

"I'm sorry."

"What's gotten into you?"

"Nothing I'll do better."

"Damn right you will. Help me with these barrels."

Well, it could have been a lot worse. Maybe Therese had gotten the brunt of it and now he was starting to cool off.

Marianne finished her chores wordlessly and returned to the house to help her mother iron clothes and cook dinner.

Her father's bad mood had rubbed off on Therese, and the cooking process was nothing close to pleasant.

"I said the salt, Marianne, the salt!"

"I gave you the salt!"

"Then where is it?"

"Behind the milk!" she pointed to where the jar of salt sat on the counter pushed behind the herbs and can of corn. Therese could be so blind.

She grabbed it, clearly irritated, then leaned in close to her ear.

"I saw you eyeing those tent dresses Lucy was wearing at school today," she whispered.

"Like I would want to look like a walking pillowcase. Give me your bermuda shorts! You got too fat for them anyway."

"Mama doesn't like you wearing those!"

The bickering went on between the two siblings. It was always over clothes and personal possessions. Marianne thought it unfair that Jody and Therese always got new clothes, and Marianne always got stuck with hand me downs and second hand faded blouses. She wanted to have a sense of style like everyone else, but her family didn't make it easy.

After dinner, and another round of bickering with Therese, Marianne snuck out of the house and hopped on her bike to ride into town.

This late into the night, her nosy neighbors couldn't go tattle on her to her parents, and her mother was getting into those new sci-fi movies, not paying much attention to her children's whereabouts.

She stopped at a place called Payfront first. It wasn't necessarily a grocery store, but they had snacks and things, as well as a couple cheap plain t-shirts and school supplies and anything else you could need on the fly.

Marianne parked her bike outside and waltzed in, heading straight for the clothing section. Her white shirts were dirty and torn, and she needed a new one for church. She had gathered a few dollars to get new jeans and one shirt. Just enough money collected over the past two weeks from ironing her neighbors clothes to spend. It wasn't easy, hiding the money. The way her parents saw it, any charitable donations or money made went straight to the household, courtesy of being poor.

Marianne picked out one pair of jeans and one white t-shirt, brand new. As she walked back through the store she passed through the book and magazine aisle. She paused as she entered, surveying the reading material in front of her. The books were way too expensive. Marianne never could buy anything.

She looked at the magazines, several all out display. Everything from Rave to Rollingstone to something about gardens. Marianne eyed the magazine Seventeen, a fashion magazine, right next to Cosmopolitan. It had Fashion Guide written in red bold font across the front. She picked up the magazine next to it instead, a copy of Vogue with the words 'Fashion for the new romantics' next to a pretty blonde model.

Marianne folded the magazine and tucked it into her jacket before walking to the front counter. She paid for her shirt and jeans, keeping the magazine well tucked under her arm. She thanked the cashier and bid him a goodnight before hopping back onto her bike to ride home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter I have prewritten. Updates from here on out might be slow :/


	8. Break Down The House

The following morning after that strange conversation with Miranda, Andy did as she was told. She called Ava and asked her to pick four editorials from the color block shoot. Then she let the twins know that their mother would call them at lunch, and reminded Caroline about her English project. Then she called Giselle and told her to go ahead with the sequins. And she had texted Nigel before she went to bed in order to have his response right away for Miranda the next morning.

She assumed that Miranda would want to know his answer as they got in the car and drove to city hall, but the editor wanted to hear nothing about Runway in the short time span they had. Andy just shut her mouth and followed her boss up to Glen Brewer's office like a lost puppy dog.

She found herself sitting in that same seat as last night, nearly as confused as the last time.

"You'll get adequate compensation," Glen Brewer stated, trying to reason with The Dragon in front of him.

"It's not compensation that I care about. Do you know how long I've owned that house?" Miranda fired back.

"Yes, I am aware. But in the entire time you've owned it, nobody has lived in it, including you. I can't imagine that's about to change, Ms. Priestly."

The editor's knuckles whitened and she stashed her left hand under the table so she could flex her fingers. Andy noticed this and realized she was hiding the tell tale signs that she was stressed out. She was annoyed that he kept calling her 'Ms. Priestly', and even more annoyed that he was being so persistent.

"Please think about this," he went on. "If we buy it, the town will cover the cost it takes to make it viable."

"Are you deaf?" Miranda scoffed. "How many times do I have to emphasize that money is not the issue."

"Well what is the problem then? Why are you so reluctant to give up a bayhouse you've never even lived in? A house that's about to fall apart anyway. A house that has been hit numerous times by hurricanes over the decades."

"It's not any concern of yours. I don't have to explain anything to you. As I've already said, the house is not yours to buy," Miranda reiterated.

There was nothing Miranda hated more than having to repeat herself. Except for maybe poor stitching.

Mr. Brewer ran his hands through his salt and pepper hair, clearly frustrated. Andy didn't think that the man had quite thought about how difficult Miranda could be, and assumed all he'd have to do is a little bit of coaxing to snag the house from her. They'd been here at least an hour already and god was Miranda stubborn. She was surprised the editor had even lasted this long. Andy felt a certain sense of loyalty and pride. How dare he assume it'd be easy to take her possessions and buy her off! No one could do that to Miranda Priestly.

"Just think of how much this will benefit the community. A bigger boat dock would be so beneficial to many of our residents," Mr. Brewer went on.

"I'm sure it would be. But for the last time, the house is not yours to take."

Glen Brewer shook his head.

"What is it that you want, Ms. Priestly, what would you like?"

She stood up now, and Andy rose with her.

"I would like to see my house now."

...

Andy didn't know what she expected. It was Miranda, so maybe a palace embedded among the soft flat fields. A mansion nestled on it's own island in the water.

That was not the case.

Instead they pulled up to a heavily faded orange house at the end of a badly paved road, tucked on the backside of several other better looking bayhouses. Andy could not fathom one reason why the town wanted to buy it from Miranda, or one reasonable explanation as to why she owned it. It reminded her of Jenny's house from Forrest Gump, except lifted high off the ground for flooding. Across the front of the house were pale white letters, barely visible against the light orange. If you looked at it from a certain angle you could see that it said "Hartland House".

Miranda backed the SUV in towards the muddy garage and stepped out of the car, ordering Andy to do the same.

Miranda's next actions would have surprised her, but Andy had accepted early on in this trip that everything happening contradicted Miranda's very own personality. The editor was unpredictable after all.

She followed the older woman as she walked away from the car and pushed her way through the mud between the house and the vehicle. Andy trailed carefully, stepping exactly where the editor had stepped, for she seemed to know the path by heart.

Upon closer inspection of the house, Andy had decided that if she breathed too hard, the entire thing would collapse right in front of her.

A key seemed to appear in the editor's hand from nowhere as she stuck it somewhere inside the garage door, and suddenly, she lifted the entire thing up. Walking into this underpart of the house, a wave of heat so powerful hit Andy and she nearly couldn't breathe for a moment. It smelled of moist wood, and salt. The entire area was empty, but there were lots of shelves and what looked like work benches. In the middle of the garage was a spiral staircase of sorts that led up into the house. They eased their way up, careful that the staircase wouldn't collapse under them. Miranda pulled what looked like a mini crowbar out of her handbag and shoved it between the frame and the door, prying hard to get it open. It took a couple tries, but she managed to break it, and the wooden door swung open.

It was dark inside, and dead bugs littered the front entrance just by their feet. Andy refrained from squirming as she noticed a dead particularly large cockroach peeking out from the side. A tiny gasp escaped from her mouth and Miranda's head turned in her direction.

Uh oh.

"Do you have a bug phobia, Andrea?" she asked.

"Just the cockroaches," Andy gulped and eyed the ugly leviathan laying still on the ground in front of her.

"They get really big here, with all moisture. Probably the size of your palm," Miranda responded and stared at her assistant.

Andy froze and couldn't say a word as her boss deadpanned. Although she could have sworn Miranda's eyes were beaming in amusement underneath her big sunglasses, and the corners of her mouth turned up in an ever so slight smirk barely noticeable. If she told anyone that Miranda Priestly smiled and even just cracked a joke, they would never believe her.

The editor stepped into the house.

Andy followed quickly, avoiding the ugly beast in the doorway. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness inside the house, she saw white sheets covering all of the furniture, and there was a lot.

Andy could make out the shapes of two couches, a desk, several tables, and two massive bookcases lining the wall and coming just below a window. Andy thought that was odd, to have a window inside the house.

Peering further in, she noticed another room, also with what she thought was more furniture, but she couldn't tell in the dark.

Miranda walked forward and placed her hand along one of the tables, then grabbed the white sheet by the corners and yanked it off.

The table underneath was a little dusty, and Andy saw a whoosh of particles fly up from the sheet into the dim light entering through the front door.

There were so many questions swimming through her mind at the moment. Who's house had this been? Why did Miranda own it? Why didn't she want to give it up? How old was the house? Why was everything still in it? Why were they even here now?

"Take the sheets off," Miranda ordered, and Andy went along and did as she was told, pulling all the sheets off of the furniture and setting free an abundance of dust and critters, even jumping at some of them. She hoped to god she didn't actually spot a rat.

She was used to rats of course. Back at home she spotted them along the subway all the time. But here, she was sure the rats were meaner, and scarier.

Andy spotted no pictures or any items that indicated who had lived here. Andy was certain Miranda could never live in a place like this, although the house itself seemed massive, for being on an ocean outlet at least

For Miranda, a rush of emotions were traveling through her. Of course, she hadn't seen the house in over thirty years. The editor took it upon herself to remove the last sheet in the room, the one draped over the tall bookcases, or at least that's what Andy thought they were.

When the sheet was removed, Andy discovered that lining the shelves were not books, but vinyls. She let out a breath of wonder. How was it even possible to have so many vinyls? Two full cases lined end to end with the thin colorful casing. It looked spectacular.

"We need to clean," Miranda said.

We need to? Andy frowned slightly, not entirely sure her job extended this far. Well, it didn't even extend as far as accompanying Miranda on a personal trip to the outskirts of Houston, yet here she was.

"Okay, we'll start with dusting," Andy said to her boss and then realized they would need cleaning supplies. Spray, lots of spray. And lots of rags and paper towels. And a trash can.

"Don't be absurd. We need light first," Miranda rolled her eyes and began walking quickly back through the room and out the door, her Louboutin's making a hollow noise along the stairs outside. Andy trailed behind soon after, taking an extra big step over that cockroach.

"Andrea, figure out who the best electrician is in this town and call them, say it's an emergency, and get them over here. Then find a carpenter and also tell them it's an emergency. Then find the nearest hardware store and get hard cleaning supplies and good lightbulbs. Also, I need you to buy new windows. The ones on this house are double pane. Most of them will only need the inside, some might need both. I will send you the exact measurements so you know what to buy. I'll also send you how many I need and whether it's inside or outside or both. If you can't find the windows, take them to a specialist and see if anyone in town has them. We might have to go to the city. If so we can make the trip tomorrow. Lastly, buy me clothes. I need something to clean in, but make sure it's in good taste, and not polyester, or I won't be able breathe."

Miranda shoved the car keys and her credit card in Andy's hands as she scribbled in her notepad so fast her hand nearly cramped up. You think she'd be used to it by now, but apparently it wasn't the case.

Andy thought about Miranda's requests, and how she mentioned cleaning. Had she ever even cleaned anything in her life? She certainly didn't clean anything at the townhouse. There was a housekeeper for that. A nice Spanish speaking lady named Dolores in fact. Then there was the request to get her clothes she could clean in. Miranda wanted them in good taste. What was she supposed to get her? Andy couldn't imagine the woman who dressed the world in anything other than her signature Prada dresses and perfectly pressed slacks. To put her in sweats or jeans and scrubbing something would be quite a sight.

Andy snapped back to reality and what she had to do. She thought about her list. She could tackle getting a carpenter, electrician, and cleaning gear at the nearest Home Depot or Lowe's. Suddenly, a wave of panic coursed through her. Miranda would want these things fast, but Andy didn't know her way around, or how to get out of here.

She took a nervous glance at Miranda, whose gaze was fixed solidly upon the open garage door of the nearly fallen in structure.

"They don't want the house," Miranda suddenly spouted. Andy wasn't sure if the editor was even speaking to her. She didn't say anything, and Miranda didn't break her stare. "They want the property."

She must have noticed the younger woman's eyes on her, for she spun around quickly. Except instead of the harsh 'what' Andy expected her to hiss, she just asked, "What do you need?"

"How do I get to the hardware store?"

Andy cursed herself in her head. God she sounded like an idiot. She really should have sucked it up and just figured it out herself.

"Make a left on this road here, it will take you to St. Margaret's Loop. Make a left on that and it will take you to Road 47. Go North on the main road and in about two miles you'll find a Freeport True Value.


	9. Losing My Religion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just changed the setting of the story, don't be alarmed! Sorry guys 
> 
> The story now takes place in Angleton, Texas near the gulf coast. Caroline lives in a bayhouse down in Freeport

The phone rang at approximately 10:32 on a Sunday morning in the Price household. Everyone was home at the moment, and Marianne scrambled to the buffet in the dining room where it sat before anyone could.

"Hello?" she answered the line timidly.

"Yes, is this--"

"It's Marianne Price!" she blurted in a harsh whisper.

"Oh, Marianne, hi! It's Linda Williams. I hope I didn't interrupt anything, but I wanted to call and let you know that I was able to get that permit for you from the city to work for the salon if you'd like. Just come down anytime today for a signature and I'll get you set up."

"Yes, yes, that sounds wonderful, thank you. Will you be in all day?" Marianne asked.

"Right up until 5:00, darlin'."

"Excellent, I'll see you soon, goodbye," Marianne rushed and ended the call before the woman on the other line could manage a goodbye back.

Like clockwork, Marianne's mother strolled into the dining room to see what, or rather who was ringing them on God's hour.

"Who was that?" she asked.

"Solicitor. One of the Schmidt's I think."

"Ah," her mother nodded. "I'll have to call on Rick and remind him we'll take none of that nonsense here."

Marianne nodded simply, trying to steer away from the subject, until she got an idea.

"Actually, I can stop by there later after mass, it'd be no problem," she offered.

Her mother frowned at the suggestion, and Marianne felt a flicker of doubt, but there was no objection, and her mother simply mumbled an 'alright' and left the room to call the others to the front of the house.

Within ten minutes, Marianne, her parents, and Therese were stuffed into the Chevy and off to 11:15 mass. Drew had elected to ride with Jody and her husband.

"I noticed Mr. Hansen and that new wife of his aren't here, yet again," Marianne's mother whispered under her breath as they traveled down to their pew. Marianne took the liberty of sliding in first, away from the aisle.

"This is the third week in a row. Do you think she's sick?"

Marianne dropped down onto the kneeler and began reciting her prayers quietly. Maybe if she prayed hard enough, God would manifest right in front of her and give her some answers.

Marianne was skeptical. Who was God? And what was he playing at? She thought it was nonsensical to put your faith in someone who so willingly seemed to play with people's lives like a boy with action figures. What kind of god kept her trapped here? And what kind of god sent her brother overseas to fight in a war. Nonsense. There was too much gray area.

Marianne's mother liked to talk a lot about people in town who didn't go to church, or people that didn't believe. She had even made a snappy mention about Caroline once, and Marianne had stiffened and nearly told her off. Oh, if only she knew that her daughter had fallen into the same religious doubt as the old cranky woman down in Freeport. It didn't matter to Marianne. She was probably going to hell anyway for some sin or another.

After Marianne finished her prayers she sat back on the seat and waited for the service to begin. Behind her, she felt a small tap on her neck, and she turned her head slightly to see if it was who she expected.

"Good morning, Marianne."

"Good morning, Keith."

The service started.

It lulled Marianne to sleep, but she managed to stay awake and lively for the singing and responses, as well as the peace giving halfway through. Marianne spun around to face Keith behind her. She leaned in as if going for a hug.

"I need you to give me a ride after church," she whispered in his ear and pulled back. He nodded and gave her a smile.

"Peace be with you," he told her, and she turned around and moved on.

...

After church, Marianne and her family went through the usual rounds of chatter with neighbors and people of the town. They were outside for a near half hour.

"Are we taking you over to Rick's? We might as well all go then. I know your father isn't fond of going over there, and well, they don't go to mass after all," Marianne's mother started.

"No, no, I'll walk. It'll do me some good and I can get there in plenty of time. I'll figure out how to get home."

God bless Marlena Price. Marianne loved her mama, but she was oblivious.

...

About ten minutes later found Marianne sneaking behind the church and hopping into Keith's Toyota pickup once more.

"Where is it you're going today? I heard your family talking about goin' to Schmidt's to tell 'em off," Keith started the engine.

"No, no need to go there. Ya know that beauty salon over on Clements and Velasco street?"

"Yeah, my grandma goes and gets her hair done there."

"That's it."

"Gettin' a makeover?"

"You wish."

Keith chuckled at the comment as they pulled out of the church parking lot and started driving.

"No really though, why you gotta go there?" he pressed, and Marianne shrugged, giving in and telling the boy.

"A job."

He whistled in astonishment, lifting the cap up on his head and nodding to her.

"My my, Marianne Price, a working girl. What do you imagine you're gonna do with all that money?"

"Leave this place, honey," she cackled and put her feet up on the dashboard, leaning her head back. The car got silent all of the sudden. Keith turned to her.

"You don't mean that do you?" he asked.

Marianne didn't answer for a moment. She looked out at the passing greenery. She didn't want to leave. Truth was she liked it here. She didn't mind the humidity, she liked how close she was to the beach, she had Caroline, and she wasn't unhappy. But she didn't like the people, or rather their mindset. And she didn't like how her opportunities were so limited.

"I don't know, Keith," she finally told him. 

Her usual chatty companion stayed silent for the remainder of the drive, and it was the one time Marianne wished he wouldn't. Now she was alone with her thoughts which was eminently worse.

Did she mean what she had said? Did she want to leave this place? She didn't know if she had the courage to. It was a great big world out there no doubt, but Marianne was sick of living in this tiny bubble. She needed to talk, desperately.

Caroline.

They pulled up to the hair salon in no time.

"I won't be long. I'm gonna need another ride to Freeport when I'm done," Marianne said. Keith frowned.

"I gotta go home and help my brothers plow the field, you think I got time to drive your ass all the way down to Freeport?"

Marianne reached into her jean pockets and flicked a dime at him. He caught it mid air and shook his head.

"Payment for your troubles," she grinned and slammed the door. 

"You're lucky I'm your friend, Marianne!" he shouted after her from the truck as she opened the door to the salon and a cool wave of air blasted into her face.

A middle aged woman sat behind the desk inside filing her nails. Her hair was tinted strawberry blonde in a big Marilyn Monroe type style, and makeup done perfectly.

"Can I help you, darlin'?"

"I'm looking for Linda. She's expecting me," Marianne spouted.

"Gimme a second," the woman said and hopped off her stool as she power walked to the back.

As Marianne waited in the lobby, she noticed the customers in the waiting area, and the ones in the middle of getting their hair done, all looking at her curiously. She didn't look like much, with her simple pair of jeans and cotton blouse. And her hair was definitely a cringe worthy item upon her body.

Marianne could style hair. She learned from the best of course. Caroline was old yet her hands hadn't failed her yet. And Linda, the owner of the salon had thought Marianne did just fine, with the exception of the fact that the seventeen year old didn't take care of her own hair or styled it in any other way that half up, leaving the rest to fall loosely and messily around her shoulders. Linda also ignored the fact that Marianne had never touched makeup and had no desire to.

She emerged from behind the back of the salon a moment later, makeup, nails, and hair done to perfection. She chewed gum on the right side of her mouth and smiled with a glamorous set of white teeth at the sight of her new recruit.

"Marianne Price, darling. So glad to have you come in," she smiled and reached over to hug and kiss the girl on the cheek.

Marianne reacted warmly to the greeting.

"A true pleasure, Linda," she told her.

In less than ten minutes she was done signing some papers and getting everything in order with her work permit. Linda kissed her goodbye and bid her a nice afternoon as Marianne hopped out of the door and back to Keith's waiting truck. He eyed her graciously as she pranced to the truck door.

"All went well?"

"Splendid."

...

Caroline was in the bathroom when Marianne arrived. She went ahead and made herself coffee while she waited for the woman to get out. She wasn't alone for long.

"How does that coffee taste, Mary?" Caroline asked, a smirk smeared right across her wrinkly face.

Caroline didn't have any creamer, and Marianne hadn't realized this until she poured the coffee. She wasn't going to show weakness though, and drank the drink black and sugarless as it was, however nasty it was.

"Just fine," Marianne answered, trying to keep a straight face. The harsh bitter taste grew stronger with each sip.

Caroline took her usual spot in the rocking chair.

"Did you see God today?" she asked.

"I never do," Marianne answered her and sat down on the couch.

"Don't you think that means something?"

"I don't think it has to mean anything."

"And why do you say that?"

"Does God have to have a meaning?"

"For some people."

"Not you."

Caroline nodded her head and narrowed her eyes.

"Not me," she repeated. She then reached her weathered hands down into the rocking chair cushion and pulled out an empty whiskey bottle, tossing it at Marianne.

She caught it, nearly missing, and got up to dispose of it.

"I want another one by Tuesday," Caroline ordered.

"We'll see," Marianne answered. "I'm short on money right now."

The old woman scoffed.

"Why? What do you pay for?"

"Rides to come see your cranky ass," Marianne told her.

Caroline had nothing to say to that. Just began picking at small scabs across her arms and hands.

"Dare I ask why you came to see me today then?"

Marianne shrugged.

"Well," she started. "I got a job."

"A real job? Where?"

"A salon owned by Linda Williams."

"I haven't seen Linda Williams in twenty years. What a slut."

Marianne rolled her eyes.

"Whatever. She gave me a job doing hair. I'm good at it, just the way you taught me. But since I'm not certified from a beauty school I had to get a temporary permit from the city that will last until I go to beauty school, which will happen when I graduate," Marianne sunk down. "That's if I can afford it."

The corners of Caroline's mouth twitched, however she didn't say anything.

"So is that it then?" she spoke after a sustained silence.

"I don't know. Keith gave me a ride here from the salon, asked me what I was going to do with all that money I earned."

"And what did you tell him?"

"And what did you tell him?"

"That I was gonna leave."

Caroline snorted.

"You wouldn't leave. You're too scared."

The comment hit a nerve in Marianne, and she began fiddling with the hem on her shirt.

"Well I don't like being here," she countered.

"If you hated it so much, you'd be gone already."

"I don't hate it, but I'm not satisfied."

Caroline laughed some more.

"What are you expecting. Gonna hop on into town and get famous. Dream that everybody will know your name? Soon to be the next Janis Joplin or Anne Bancroft?" she snorted in more laughter.

"I just wanted to talk," Marianne mumbled. 

"'Bout what, sweetie?" she asked, still chuckling from the image of Marianne becoming famous. She turned serious and stared straight at the young girl. "What do you want me to tell you? I can't read your future. If you wanna leave, get out already."

Marianne bit her lip.

"Do you mind if the Sutherland boys and I come down to the house next week and fish? We'll probably go down to the beach."

"Sure thing, honey."


End file.
